Rawls obeyed slowly.
“Turn round.”
Cultus plucked Rawls’s revolver from its holster and stepped back. The Chinaman stood there, dish-towel in one hand, a dripping dish in the other.
“Whatcha tryin’ to pull off around here?” rasped Rawls. “What’s the idea of sneakin’ in and stickin’ guns in a feller’s face?”
“Wasn’t expectin’ us, was yuh?” grinned Cultus.
“Who would? What’s it all about, sheriff?”
Bad News didn’t know, so he kept still. Cultus handed him Rawls’s gun.
“Bring the cook; we’re goin’ in the livin’-room.”
Chihuahua herded willingly. He seemed about as dumb as any Chinaman could possibly be. Rawls stopped beside a table, where a bright coloured serape had been carelessly thrown. He rested his right hand on the table and looked belligerently at Cultus.
“Now, damn yuh, what’s the idea of this hold-up?” he growled.